


incremental

by ictus



Series: with a bang, with a whimper [2]
Category: DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 16:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: In the year that they've been working together, things have become easier. Dick finds a way to navigate Jason’s emotional tripwires, and Jason tears down some of his walls, allows himself to be seen.





	incremental

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-flaspoint continuity, follows on about a year after [zero at the bone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16653709) and is the final installment of this series. Can be read as a standalone depending on how readily you can accept the idea of Dick as a killer.

 

It happens in increments.

They’re finishing up a job in San José, an underground terrorist ring that’s been gaining traction through Central America. Weeks of stakeouts and careful planning have culminated in an all-out ambush, the two of them taking down the entire organisation with a couple of Uzis and not much else.

Over the last year, Dick’s become accustomed to using firearms. He’s come to see the tactical advantage of open fire, how it’s invaluable in overcoming seemingly insurmountable odds. Still, there’s nothing quite like a _real_ fight. Dick has always preferred hand-to-hand, loves the thrill of being in the thick of it, of out-manoeuvring his opponent at every turn. So when they get down to the last dozen or so men, Dick discards his gun and leaps into the fray.

Jason’s at his six, still firing off round after round, covering his back. Dick hears him swear as he runs out of ammo, and he chances a glance over his shoulder to make sure he’s okay. The movement leaves him open to a kick that gets him in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and making him gasp and splutter. Jason, of course, is holding his own: he’s produced a couple of shuriken that he lances with deadly precision, then draws his kris and makes short work of the man on his three.

Dick curses himself for being so easily distracted. They’ve been fighting together for long enough now that they can sense each other’s position, anticipate each other’s attack. Their styles complement each other’s seamlessly, and Dick’s surprised by just how effortless it’s been for them to fall into an easy rhythm.

By the time they’re done, the room is littered with unconscious bodies. Dick’s slumped against the wall, cradling a sprained wrist and still breathing hard from the kick to his diaphragm. He watches on as Jason retrieves a pistol from one of the unconscious men, then slowly and methodically shoots each and every one of them between the eyes. Back when they’d taken this case, Jason had been adamant there’d be no survivors; knowing the kind of people they were dealing with, Dick didn’t object. Even so, he can’t help but shiver at the sight of Jason taking life after life without so much as flinching, with a kind of clinical detachment that seems almost inhuman.

Dick’s not sure if he should be disappointed or grateful that he himself is yet to reach that point.

“You alright?” Jason’s finished up, is cleaning the blood off his kris using a scrap from one of the men’s jackets.

“Yeah, just a little winded,” he says.

Jason’s concerned expression cracks for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning up like he’s trying to repress a smile. “You uh… you got a little—”

He makes an abortive gesture with his hand.

“Right here—”

Dick frowns. Jason still looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Here,” he says finally, removing his blood-splattered glove. He reaches out with his bare hand to press the pad of his thumb into the hollow of Dick’s cheekbone, the touch surprisingly gentle.

“There,” he says, wiping a few times. His own hand comes back bloody but he doesn’t seem to mind. Dick’s hand jumps to the place where Jason had touched him, feeling something twinge in his chest.

“Thanks,” he says after a great length.

Jason snorts. “Don’t mention it.”

 

: : :

 

Some weeks later, they’re in an abandoned suburban house on the outskirts of Johannesburg with a murderer tied to a chair before them. Usually this type of situation is pretty cut and dry: they track down their target, fill them with lead, and then they’re on their way. But in this instance, they’re also after information, crucial intel that could save lives.

Predictably, the perp refuses to talk.

Jason’s spent the better part of the last thirty minutes beating him, doing his best to threaten him in broken Afrikaans. The perp just laughs harder and harder with each blow, spitting blood in defiance.

Eventually, Jason reaches his breaking point.

“Wait here,” he growls. Dick watches him set off towards the garage, can hear him tear the place apart searching for something. He returns carrying a rusty toolbox that he sets down in front of the perp with purpose. He opens it up and begins rifling through it. Eventually, he pulls out a pair of pliers. 

Dick feels a thrill of trepidation. “What are you doing?”

“Making him talk,” he says like it’s obvious.

“I—” Dick hesitates. How can he reasonably object? They’d both agreed to kill him, anyway. How can he permit murder, but insist torture is one step too far?

Jason pauses when he sees Dick’s expression, the malice in his eyes softening. He sets down the tools and takes Dick by the arm, leading him out of the room and into the hallway.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “you good with this?”

Dick thinks of all the people this man has already killed. Thinks of all the people who will die if they don’t get this intel.

“Yeah,” he says with more conviction than he truly feels.

Jason doesn’t buy it for a second. “Let me take care of this, alright? You can wait outside.”

Dick wants to protest, wants to shoulder equal responsibility for what goes on here. But there’s something about the naked concern on Jason’s face, about the gentleness in his voice, something that makes him reconsider. Jason’s still holding onto his wrist and Dick is hyperaware of every inch that their skin is touching, wonders if Jason can feel his racing pulse.

Dick swallows. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll handle it.” He gives Dick’s wrist a reassuring squeeze before letting go.

Dick loiters outside, trying desperately not to think of what Jason’s doing. It becomes impossible the moment the perp’s screams reach his ears, agonised shrieks that make his skin crawl. Every passing minute feels like an eternity, the screams rising in pitch and becoming increasingly garbled. Dick’s heart pounds in his ears. He closes his eyes and wills it to be over when suddenly, gunshots ring out. The screaming stops. Dick lets out a deep, shuddering breath.

Jason emerges sometime later, his hair dishevelled and matted with sweat. Dick looks at his hands and sees ten perfect crescents where he hadn’t quite managed to scrub the blood out from under his fingernails. He thinks of how those same hands had felt on him less than half an hour ago, how reassuring that touch was.

Dick tries to keep his voice even. “Did you get what we needed?”

 “’Course I did.” His smile is strained, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Piece of cake.”

 

: : :

 

They’re in Karachi when everything goes horribly wrong.

They had been following a lead on a group of bioterrorists who have been cooking up a supervirus, a viral pathogen that might be nothing, but might also be a weapon designed to wipe out most of the continent. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission: get in, grab some samples, and get out. But either their intel was bad or their source sold them out, because they ended up walking right into an ambush, an attack so well-coordinated that they were lucky to escape with their lives.

“Tomorrow—,” Jason says, interrupting himself with a pained groan as he removes his kevlar vest. “Tomorrow, we’re going to go back there and burn that place to the ground.”

“Agreed.”

They’re back at their temporary safehouse, both of them in pretty bad shape. Jason’s covered in gunshot bruises, dark welts poking over the top of his undershirt and across his shoulders. Dick knows he’s not faring much better himself, his stomach lurching when he considers the sort of state they’d be in if their attackers had used armour-piercing rounds.

Their most pressing concern is a deep gash across Jason’s thigh. Jason already examined it in the field, proudly declaring _the bastards didn’t even hit the artery_ before tearing off a scrap of his own pants to use as a makeshift bandage. Dick had trusted Jason’s judgement to wait before treating it, but there’s no denying he’s lost a lot of blood on the journey back to their safehouse. His pallid face is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and there’s a pronounced tremor in his hands when he reaches for the first aid kit.

“Let me,” Dick says quietly, placing a hand over Jason’s.

Jason doesn’t protest like Dick expected. Instead, he meets Dick’s gaze with hazy eyes, then nods his assent. Maybe it’s just a testament to the bad state he’s in, but Dick can’t help but feel elated that Jason’s trusting him with this. They always tend to their own injuries after a job, just as they’ve been trained. Usually Jason won’t even linger, making himself scarce at the earliest available opportunity. But recently they’ve been working overseas which involves spending time together before a case, planning and strategising. They’re not friends, not exactly. But there’s a comfortable camaraderie between them, one that extends beyond their partnership in the field. Dick’s surprised by how much he’s grown to appreciate it.

“Can you undo your belt?” Dick asks. Jason’s leaning against the rickety kitchen table, looking like he can barely hold himself upright. He moves to comply as Dick drops to a crouch and begins working on his boots. “What, no witty one-liner?”

“Bad jokes are kinda your thing. I’d hate to steal your schtick.”

 _That didn’t stop you when you were thirteen_ , he wants to say, but he’s not sure how it would land. With Jason, it can be hard to tell.

“My jokes aren’t bad,” is what he settles on instead, which earns him a snort from Jason. He finishes with one boot and moves to the other as Jason struggles with his pants.

“Fuck it,” he says, leaning back on the table. “You do it if you’re so desperate to make yourself useful.”

Dick wants to make a joke, wants to continue the banter, but Jason’s lack of coordination is genuinely concerning. Their first aid kit is basic, and he has no fluids with which to replenish Jason’s blood.

“I got it,” he says gently. He finishes removing Jason’s second boot and deftly removes his belt, then carefully peels his pants down over the wound, wincing in sympathy. The gash is deeper than he expected, wider too. He finishes getting his pants off the rest of the way and tosses them to the side.

“So what’s the verdict, doc? Am I gonna make it?”

“You’ll live,” he says dryly. Jason sits up on the table, leaning back on his elbows while Dick pulls up a chair and seats himself between his legs. He already suspects he knows the answer but he feels as though he should ask anyway. “Did you want something for the pain?”

Jason doesn’t reply, just shakes his head, and Dick knows better than to press the issue. Jason’s always refused painkillers. At first, Dick thought it was a show of strength, that he wanted to prove that he could endure anything, or maybe it was something he learned while training with the League, a hard-earned lesson about letting your guard down. But after watching Jason fish out fractured bullet casings from a hole in his own leg without so much as a couple of Tylenol to ease the pain, Dick had started to wonder if there was something else at play.

He may no longer have access to Bruce’s files, but Babs was kind enough to create a backdoor so he could access hers remotely. A quick search for Catherine Todd was all it had taken for the pieces to fall into place. Dick had scanned the short entry, his eyes catching on the words _heroin_ and _addict_ and _overdose_ , then immediately closed the file, feeling guilty for knowing something about Jason that he himself hadn’t willingly volunteered. He’d resolved to push it from his mind—and he had. But the empathy he’d felt for Jason persisted, bleeding into the fabric of their relationship, colouring his every perception.

Dick tries not to dwell it, pulls on a pair of sterile gloves and sets about cleaning the wound. Jason’s uncharacteristically quiet, his laboured breathing the only sound filling the dingy kitchen. Jason doesn’t so much as flinch when the needle pierces his skin, Dick trying to be as gentle as he can while still working quickly enough to stem the flow.

He’s nearly at the halfway point when Jason speaks, a slurred edge to his voice. “Y’know, I still remember the first time I ever got stitches.”

Dick’s biting his lip in concentration. “Tell me,” he mutters distractedly.

“Fourteen stitches in my left knee. I was so embarrassed, I’d made the dumbest mistake on patrol. And—and the whole ride back, I’m worried Alfred’s gonna blow a fuse, that he’s gonna be mad at me for being reckless and getting myself hurt. But—”

Jason falls silent. When Dick chances a glance at him, his grin is borderline delirious. “But?”

“But when he saw me, he just—the look on his face. He just heaved this long-suffering sigh, sounding so fucking put-upon and said, ‘I suppose I’ll fetch the suture kit, shall I?’”

Dick huffs out a laugh. “That sounds like something he’d say.” His smile is genuine but there’s pain there too, a sense of loss. He wonders if Jason feels it too, or if he’s gotten better at ignoring it over the years. “What happened?”

“It was my third night as Robin. I’d practiced with the grapple in the cave, felt like I’d gotten the hang of it. So I figure I can clear fifty foot gap, no sweat.” Dick holds back a smile as he gently pulls on the thread, can already see where this is going. “So I jumped. It’s a four storey drop to the street below, but I’m Robin, and Robin’s fearless. And I’m soaring through the air, the cape billowing behind me, and for the first time in my life I remember thinking ‘wow, I’m actually really good at this.’”

Dick pauses mid-stitch to look up. Jason’s eyes are unfocused, staring at some point just beyond Dick’s left shoulder, completely lost in the memory. Dick holds his breath, afraid to do anything that will break the moment.

Jason drops his gaze, his lips forming a sardonic grin. “But I guess I misjudged my distance from the fixation point. My line was about five feet too long. Smashed right into the ledge I was supposed to leap over. Pretty sure the limestone’s still stained with my blood.”

Dick smiles to himself. “Sounds like a rookie error.”

Jason scoffs. “C’mon now, not all of us are natural-born aerialists. Cut me some slack.”

“Wasn’t that the whole problem?” he asks with a wry smile.

“Oh fuck off. It’s not my fault my predecessor forgot the pants when he designed the costume.”

“You know, I feel as though I’ve spent my entire adult life defending that decision. You ought to show a little more respect for the guy that’s keeping you in one piece. Next time I’ll just cauterise you in the field and be done with it.”

“Hey.” Jason’s tone is cold. Harsh. Dick’s eyes widen, startled by the sudden shift. “I can take care of this myself, okay? I don’t need your help.” Jason’s brow is drawn into a hard line and there’s a malice in his eyes that’s unsettling. It’s an expression Dick’s seen a hundred times before, but never once directed at him.

Dick bites his lip, places his hand on Jason’s uninjured thigh in a gesture that he hopes is soothing. He summons up as much sincerity as he can muster and says, “Jason. I know.”

Dick holds his gaze for several long moments, lets Jason see the truth there. After a few seconds he almost seems to deflate, looking sheepish. “Right. Sure.” Dick squeezes his uninjured thigh and smiles reassuringly before returning to his work, finishing up the last couple of stitches.

“You know, this is going to leave a hell of a scar,” he says lightly.

 

: : :

 

After Karachi, things start to change. Jason stops disappearing the second a job is finished, and they start spending time together between cases. Dick finds himself lighter, somehow. More like himself. Sometimes, he catches himself smiling—something he hasn’t done much since he first took a life, a year ago and half a world away. Jason’s always quick to mirror the gesture with a grin of his own.

Things have become easier between them. Dick finds a way to navigate Jason’s emotional tripwires, and Jason tears down some of his own walls, allows himself to be seen. The work they do weighs heavily on both of them—although Jason’s better at hiding it—and they’re as aware of each other’s breaking points as they are their own. Dick knows when to give Jason space, just as Jason knows when to take the reins on a case.

He also knows when Dick needs to cut loose.

It turns out that Jason’s definition of ‘cutting loose’ mostly involves knocking back a couple of drinks and talking about literally anything other than the case at hand. It’s a concept Dick becomes rapidly familiar with.

They’re in a dingy hotel in St Petersburg when Jason raps twice on his door. Dick barely has time to register his surprise before Jason’s shoving right past him, pushing a bottle of vodka into his hands with a murmured, _when in Rome_.

Several hours later, they’ve taken care of most of the vodka, plus half of the mini bar. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on Dick’s bed, their backs against the headboard and their legs splayed out over the ugly comforter. Dick’s well and truly buzzed, the alcohol making him feel flushed and giddy. Jason’s in a similar state, the heat radiating off him in waves, making Dick aware of every inch where their bodies are pressed together.

“Alright, truth time: what’s the worst thing you ever did when you were a kid? And don’t lie to me Dick, because I _know_ you weren’t nearly as saintly as you’d have everyone believe.”

He pries the vodka out of Dick’s loose grasp and takes a swig. Dick’s so intent on watching the way his throat works as he swallows that it takes him some time to parse the question. “Uh. I mean, honestly, there’s really nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“I mean, I skipped school a couple of times and I didn’t always make curfew but—” Dick pauses, some long-forgotten memory floating to the surface. “Well actually okay, there was this one thing.”

Jason’s eyes are bright in the dim room, his smile curving into something devious. “Go on.”

“So when I was a kid, I used to climb on things a lot.”

“When you were a kid. Sure.”

Dick rolls his eyes and snatches the bottle back from him, takes a swig of his own.

“And as you could probably imagine, I broke a lot of stuff. But one thing that really stands out is when I was nine. I thought it would be a good idea to swing on a chandelier like a trapeze and well—it ended as badly as you’d expect.”

Jason tuts. “Which one?”

“Entrance hall.”

Jason looks genuinely alarmed. “Oh no, not the crystal one.”

Dick snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alfred that angry before. I felt so bad about it that I refused to come down to dinner, I couldn’t even look him the eye.” Dick feels that all too familiar pang in his chest, the one he gets when he thinks of Alfred, when thinks of—

He shoves the feeling down. Takes another drink. “What about you? What was your greatest offense?”

Jason shrugs, taking the bottle from him. “Nothing.” Dick raises an eyebrow. “No, really,” he says, grinning around the lip of the bottle. “Straight-A kid, top of my class. Always had my homework done by dinner. Even helped Alfred with chores on weekends.”

Dick’s mouth is agape. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugs again, his voice gone soft. “I knew I was onto a good thing with Bruce. I didn’t want to mess it up.”

A heavy silence fills the room. Bruce will always be a sore spot for both of them—it’s a pain they now share. For a few minutes they do nothing but wordlessly pass the bottle back and forth, neither of them knowing what to say, and neither of them needing to say it anyway.

“Mmm, but there was one time, though.” Jason’s eyes are hooded, his gaze unfocused.

Dick’s mouth quirks. “Tell me.”

Jason licks his lips, lances a sidelong grin. “I didn’t really like you when I was a kid. Or rather, I _tried_ really hard not to like you, but it turns out you’re not an easy guy to hate.” He grins again. Dick flushes, blames it on the liquor. “You were the first Robin and you were a tough act to follow. Bruce was always pushing me to be as good as you. God,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “I swear it was like you were right there with us, the way he always compared me to you—it was if we were being trained side-by-side.”

Something uncomfortable twists in Dick’s chest. He always knew things had been hard for Jason, that he never had the support that Dick had. For the millionth time, he can’t help but wonder—if he had been there for Jason, if Jason had known he could count on him, maybe he never would have gone to Ethiopia, never would have—

“Anyway, one night we were on patrol and Bruce had to meet with Gordon. It was dead quiet and I was bored out of my mind, so I swung by Babs’ to see if she was up. When I arrived, I saw your bike parked outside. And,” his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh, “I slashed your tyres.”

Dick blinks once, twice. Casts his mind back. Tries to recall an occasion when he was visiting Gotham and—

“What, that was _you?_ ”

Jason laughs, full-throated. Dick punches him in the shoulder, forcing him to yelp. “What? I thought you knew!”

“Knew? How could I have possibly known?”

“Because you’re a detective?” Jason’s face is lit up with laughter, his smile coming easy. His mouth is red and slick and impossibly close. Dick’s drunk, he must be, because all he can think about is closing the space between them and licking his way into Jason’s mouth, sucking the taste of liquor right off his tongue.

“If it makes you feel any better, I felt pretty bad about it afterwards.”

“Yeah thanks I feel so much better,” he says trying to sound irritated and failing spectacularly. “Did you use a Birdarang?”

“You know it,” he says with a wink. “Consider it revenge for giving them such a stupid name.”

Dick splutters indignantly. “I was twelve!”

Jason’s laughing again, draining the last of the vodka. Dick watches him, feeling something uncomfortable unfurl in his stomach. He waits for the mirth to fade from Jason’s eyes before he speaks again. “I know we were never really brothers, or even really friends. But I had no idea you hated me that much.”

A flash of guilt passes Jason’s face. “I didn’t hate you I just—” he swallows, eyes flitting away. “I just knew I’d never be as good as you.”

“Jason—”

“No don’t do that, don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

Dick’s heart beats rabbit-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t know what to say to Jason, how to make him understand. His mind is hazy with liquor, every possible response coming to him with an agonising slowness, each of them sounding more trite than the last.

Until one memory surfaces with a sudden clarity.

“You remember the night we killed Alders?” He says it in a rush, like he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he stops to think about what he’s about to confess. “Afterwards, when we were back at my apartment. Do you remember asking me why I called you?” Jason nods mutely, his gaze still downcast. Dick scrambles from his position to kneel opposite Jason, to force him to meet his eyes, to make him understand.

“I called you because—because I knew you had a strength that I didn’t. I knew you would push me into doing what I couldn’t do myself. What we do—these jobs that we take—it’s not easy. It’s not easy to pull the trigger and know you’re going to carry the weight of that forever.” Dick’s eyes sting with unshed tears, but he can’t look away, can’t even blink. “My whole life, I thought I could never take another life because of my humanity. But it’s that same humanity that gives me the strength carry the burden of my decisions. And that’s what I saw in you. That’s what made you better than me.”

Dick’s heart is in his throat. He’s so close to Jason, feels drawn to him as if by some nameless force. His hand twitches, desperate to reach out. But there’s something holding him back. It’s so like Jason to brush off things like this, to dismiss them with an offhand joke—anything to hide how deeply the words mean to him.

But Jason’s face is open and his are eyes soft, his voice whisper-quiet when his lips form the words.

“Thank you.”

And Dick, stunned, can only nod and say the two words that make any sense at all.

“You’re welcome.”

 

: : :

 

It seems almost fitting that it should end where it started—in Blüdhaven.

Dick hasn’t been back to Blüdhaven since—not since—

It’s been over a year since Dick was last in Blüdhaven. Dick had cleared out his apartment overnight, and was waking up to the New York City skyline by the end of the week. He’s never been one to plant roots, the circus life teaching him to be light on his feet, and New York feels like home as much as any other place he’s ever lived.

Still, there are times where New York feels too close to Blüdhaven, too close to Gotham. There are days where the weight of the skyscrapers seem to bear down on him, where the city smog suffocates him, where every shadow seems a little too long, a little too dark.

Those are the days he calls Jason.

Jason’s always got a half a dozen jobs lined up in all corners of the world. Dick still has no idea where he gets his intel, but he’s also never asked. Dick himself is almost entirely self-reliant, but he still receives the occasional encrypted message from Oracle. There are never any pleasantries, and no one ever sends their regards—just Oracle’s cool, professional tone conveying the necessary information.

Dick cherishes them all the same.

He’s finishing up a patrol in New York when he receives intel from Oracle that makes his blood run cold. The compound that Mark Desmond synthesised—the steroid that gave him superhuman strength—the one that _created_ Blockbuster, has been replicated. Mass-produced. Circulated. And now, Blüdhaven is overrun with gangs, each of them upping the dose to obtain the sort of muscle that will allow them to come out on top.

Jason’s quiet on the phone as Dick relays his intel. Dick catches some Spanish in the background, the sound of a tram pulling up to a station. He could be anywhere.

“Are you sure you don’t want to leave this one up to Bruce?”

Dick hesitates. “I kind of feel like—like I have to do it.”

“I get it,” he says, and Dick believes him.

Jason meets him in Blüdhaven 48 hours later. Dick’s spent the last couple of days doing recon, has traced the manufacture of the drug to a gang who are operating out of a warehouse by the docks. Word on the street is that they’d tracked the drug’s production and kidnapped the chemists, forced them to mass-produce the compound. In this way, they’d effectively cut off the supply to the other gangs, while ensuring they had an endless stock of it for themselves.

It’s a good plan, Dick supposes. Except for the fact that their base of operations is completely unguarded. A warehouse will always be a bad choice for a makeshift lab, and they haven’t made any efforts to fortify it, convinced that they have the muscle to fight off anyone who might challenge them.

There’s a broken skylight by the eastern entrance. Dick and Jason crouch over it, foreheads pressed together as they peer through the opening to the floor below. They’re both decked out in black civvies over kevlar, their jackets weighed down with weapons. They do a headcount, divide the room, establish a plan.

Most of the other thugs who have taken the drug won’t suffer any long-term effects, its duration of action being short at low doses. These men, however, are _massive_ : huge, hulking figures that outsize them by a factor of three. Dick knows the effects are irreversible. A fistfight just isn’t going to cut it tonight, not with them being outnumbered and overpowered. Shoot to kill is their only option.

“You sure about this?”

“Of course I am,” Dick says a little too quickly. “This is what we do.”

There’s an uncertainty in Jason’s eyes that makes Dick’s heart stutter. He knows what Jason’s thinking—but this is different. It will be different. He’s sure of it.

They drop down from the roof, Dick drawing his guns before his feet hit the ground. There’s mass commotion the instant the first shot is fired, but Dick sees and hears none of that. He just raises his guns, takes shot after shot, not even pausing to see if his bullet found its mark. He senses Jason behind him, hears the echo of his gunfire, and knows that Jason’s got him covered.

It’s over in a matter of minutes. Jason fires his last shot, and the absence of gunfire leaves a ringing in Dick’s ears. Jason signals that he’s going to do a perimeter check, and Dick nods, already reloading his gun. He methodically approaches every unconscious body, places one final bullet between their eyes, fourteen shots in total. He doesn’t flinch.

 _No survivors_ , Dick had said. Jason—looking reluctant—had agreed.

By the time Jason returns, Dick is slumped against a wall, breathing hard. Jason joins him without comment, sliding down the wall next to him. Dick’s heartrate accelerates at the close contact. He can’t help but be reminded of that night at the impound lot—only half a city away from where they are now—where Jason had held him, had gotten his hands on his skin, his breath hot and humid in his ear as Dick shuddered and shook under his touch.

“Hey,” he says softly. Jason places a hand on his thigh, the heat of him searing him like a brand. “You good?”

Jason’s mouth is so close to his, and suddenly, Dick can’t _not._ He twists under Jason’s hand, throws a knee over Jason’s hips to straddle him. Before Jason can respond, Dick’s grabbing his face with both hands and drawing their mouths together. Jason makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, lets Dick lick his way into his mouth and responds in kind. His hands are on Dick’s hips, drawing him close and holding him there, and already Dick can feel himself responding to the contact.

When they eventually draw apart, Jason throws his head back, laughing breathlessly.

“Fucking, _finally,_ ” he says before drawing Dick into another kiss. Dick moans, spurred by the idea that Jason wants this just as badly as he does. He’s overwhelmed by a need to touch Jason, to get his hands under his clothes, run his fingers over his scars. He quickly removes his gloves, get his hands under Jason’s shirt and—

Kevlar. Dick whines into Jason’s mouth, can feel his answering smile against his lips.

“It’s okay, I got it.” Jason makes quick work of his gloves, his jacket, his shirt, and is deftly undoing the catches on his armour before Dick’s even started on his jacket.

They shift until Jason’s flat on his back, all that skin laid out before him. Dick can do nothing but touch, mapping out every inch with his hands and tracing the path with his mouth. It takes him some time to realise Jason’s tugging his shirt over his head, longer still before he’s aware of Jason removing his armour. It’s all worth it when Jason gets his hands back on him, running up his sides, his short nails raking down Dick’s back. Dick hasn’t been able to shake the memory of what it was like to be touched by Jason, a part of him not believing that this is finally happening.

By the time Dick reaches the waistband of his jeans, Jason’s already hard and straining in his pants. Dick doesn’t hesitate—has already hesitated for long enough. Jason groans deep in the back of his throat when Dick gets a hand around him, his head falling back against the floor with a thud. Jason’s already leaking, his hips twitching as Dick smears precome around the head, his mouth open in a soundless moan. The sight is far too inviting. Dick delays working on his own pants in favour of kissing him again, hard and dirty like he’s always imagined it would be.

Dick’s already so close by the time he takes them both in hand. He licks his palm and is gratified when Jason starts to grind against him, tiny movements of his hips that speak volumes of his desperation. Dick’s kissing his jaw, his throat, anywhere he can reach, unable to keep his mouth off Jason for even a second.

“How long—” Jason pants, breathless, “how long have you wanted this for?”

Dick’s rhythm falters for the briefest of moments, but then Jason’s hand is there, steading his own.

“I—a couple of months,” he says, although truthfully it’s been longer. “You?”

Jason laughs, loud and full-throated. He wraps his own hand around their cocks, the increased friction making Dick groan.

“About a decade.”

Dick moans into his mouth as Jason’s grip tightens, his hips stuttering as he comes. Jason kisses him through it until Dick’s dizzy and breathless, until the sensation becomes too much and he whines into Jason’s mouth. Jason huffs a laugh against his lips, looking far too pleased with himself.

It’s Dick’s turn to level the score.

Dick takes Jason’s hand, licks broadly along the palm then sucks two of his fingers in his mouth, licking it clean. Jason’s eyes widen, his cock twitching against his stomach as Dick smirks around his fingers.

Not even pausing to catch his breath, Dick slides down Jason’s body and takes him into his mouth in one, smooth movement. Jason swears loudly, the sound echoing around the empty warehouse, his thighs twitching with the sudden sensation. Dick draws off his cock, pausing to look up at Jason with hooded eyes as he tongues under the head, teasing him. Jason groans and gets his hands in Dick’s hair, hooks his ankles around the small of Dick’s back for good measure. Dick moans around his cock and redoubles his efforts, hollowing his cheeks and dragging his tongue along the underside with every upstroke.

Jason shouts when he comes, burying his hands in Dick’s hair and forcing himself deeper into his mouth. Dick swallows desperately around him, grabs onto his hips to hold him steady. Jason’s whole body is taut, trembling, until he finally shudders and goes boneless, groaning as Dick pulls off.

Dick summons what’s left of his fine motor control to fix their pants, then crawls back up Jason’s body to lie on his chest. Jason’s still panting, his lips kiss-bitten and shiny, and Dick can’t resist stealing his breath one last time, swallowing the gasp right out of his mouth.

Neither of them speak for a long time. It should feel like some monumental shift has occurred between them. It should feel like this moment is the fulcrum of their relationship, the moment where everything changes. But Jason’s grin is the same as it’s always been, and Dick’s heart stutters all the same when Jason smiles at him.

“Cops’ll be here soon,” he murmurs in Dick’s ear. Dick nods against his chest, listens to blood rush through him. “We should clear out,” he adds, making no effort to move.

“Yeah,” he says, taking Jason’s hand and linking their fingers together. “In a minute.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


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